Your success has exceeded your natural ability, talent or charm – if you’re honest with yourself you’ve applied yourself with as much conviction as a red light masseuse with a jizz-allergy.
There was so much P on your uni transcript that you’d think R Kelly mistook if for a teenage fan and frankly, you don’t pride yourself on being liked by your colleagues. Nevertheless, you’re next in line to take over daddy’s company. Funny that.
You’re the first to ask “what school did you go to” – while everyone in WA will ask this question eventually, no one has the quick draw and deadeye accuracy that you’ve acquired from being the first to pop it off for the past 30 years.
Of course, the hardest part of this for you is pretending to give a toss about their answer while impatiently waiting to drop the mic with your tuition bombshell.
You take the difference between PSA and other private schools seriously – not all private schools were created equally in your eyes. Sure, the “lesser private school” kids may have had to wear a blazer but did their parents fork out enough money to compensate Clive Palmer’s unpaid workers?
After all, your entire credo in life is that you can put a monetary figure on superiority.
Coexisting with the opposite sex was a rocky road – it was quite a shock to the senses when you commenced uni and realised that the girls in your class weren’t impressed by you calling out during lectures of drawing dicks on post-it notes.
If you’re honest with yourself, learning not to make a fool of yourself at the uni parties took time too. Alas, giving 110% to the boys wasn’t getting you anywhere with the opposite sex. Never mind, that’s what the parental boat is for.
You still harbor the same prejudices against kids from other private schools – even to this day you look at a Guildford alumni as being a few DNA strands short of a genetically diverse relationship.
Or perhaps you still view Aquinas boys as meatheads who only got the bask in the PSA glory due to sports scholarships. It’s unlikely your views will ever change on this topic but at least we can all agree that Hale students have suffered brain damage from sniffing their own farts.
Public education scares you a little – it’s not that you’re softer than microwaved butter, it’s just that you view public schools as more of a prison than a learning institute. Overcrowded classrooms, relaxed dress code and people from all walks of life – the horror.
A mere thought of attending fills you with the same anxiety you feel when encountering windscreen washers. Be it snobby education standards or roadside shrapnel – you are not about change.
You got into law at Notre Dame – “I got the marks for UWA but thought ND’s law program was better”, sure you did pal. No reason to be embarrassed by it, after all it’s the whole point of attending a catholic private school to begin with. This is your destiny.
Just rock up every day in your Birkies just like everyone else and do enough so the folks don’t take back the Mini Cooper they bought you for getting in.
Have an obsession with how much bouncers earn – if there is one thing in this world that you can’t abide by, it’s someone who doesn’t earn as much as your parents telling you not to act like a constipated baboon with haemorrhoids at a licenced venue.
By virtue of their hourly rate, they should be fishing that pint out of the toilet themselves for you and fetching you another refreshment. Why else are you dressed like you’re about to kick a woman overboard on the Titanic?
Don’t need your arm twisted to rock your old uniform – you can’t always wear Ralph Lauren, sometimes there is enough reason to squeeze into your old school blazer (complete with all awards) and remind everyone that you are a 30 year old dressed in a school blazer at the Head of the River.
It’s not sad, it’s just a personal billboard that you use to remind society of who they are dealing with.
You expect an easy ride in court – the criminal justice system is for poor people. There is no good reason you should be before a Magistrate because you tried to piss on a bouncers leg or hit a swimmer in Daddy’s tender over on Rotto.
In fact, the accepted punishment for a rich kid is the shame that the arrest ordeal has brought upon them. Ham it up, slide a personal reference from one of the Magistrate’s golfing buddies, show 5% remorse and you’re home free.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?